


this city screams your name

by religion



Category: Blue Lock (Manga)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, again (sorry)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:00:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25567870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/religion/pseuds/religion
Summary: routine is what brings hyoma to the top of a skyscraper, a gust of wind away from falling over the edge. he watches the city like a lone sentinel, burning the horizon into his eyelids. some time ago, he watched for someone, anyone to pass through. it’s now only routine that brings him to do this. he’s already given up on seeing another life in this city.(or, a kunigiri post apocalypse au)
Relationships: Kunigami Rensuke/Chigiri Hyoma
Comments: 4
Kudos: 33





	this city screams your name

**Author's Note:**

> **content warnings:** mentions of death, war, sickness  
> title from taylor swift’s cornelia street

hyoma has come to realize that he never liked the city in the first place.

he liked pushing through a crowd, each person with their own destination. he liked watching people step off at different stops on the train. he liked the bustle of conversation as he walked down the street. he liked the sense of purpose he felt as he quickly strode forward. he liked the crowd of people feeling the same way. hyoma would cross an intersection and glance at the skyscrapers towering over him. he would feel his gut swoop as he looks up at steel and metal towers humans built to reach the sky. hyoma wonders at the thousands of people living in a hub of human achievement. he wonders at the speed of creation in the city at the things that came from human minds.

hyoma never liked the city. he only liked what it represented, the thousands of minds buzzing around to create. he liked moving with people he doesn’t know. he liked never sitting still.

hyoma hasn’t done what he liked in years.

hyoma hasn’t  _ seen _ another person in years.

the city stands silent now, what was formerly full of life became an empty steel and concrete memorial. hyoma stands above it all, the cold sting of the wind on his cheeks. he follows the lines of the roads with his eyes, taking note of the abandoned cars and shattered storefronts. he’s memorized it all at this point, but if he doesn’t do this he fears he might actually go insane.

it’s routine for him now, to look over the city on top of the tallest skyscraper near the center. before everything, hyoma didn’t like routine. he liked making plans, liked updating his calendar, but he didn’t like doing the same things every day. now, he clings to routine like it’s the only thing left of humanity in him.

routine is what brings hyoma to the top of a skyscraper, a gust of wind away from falling over the edge. he watches the city like a lone sentinel, burning the horizon into his eyelids. some time ago, he watched for someone, anyone to pass through. it’s now only routine that brings him to do this. he’s already given up on seeing another life in this city.

hyoma hums, feeling his throat itch in protest. it would be nice to talk to another person again, at least before he, too, gets sick. he has the city and his mind all to himself; it’s a wonder he hasn’t started talking to the roaches. hyoma breathes, thinking. a strong gust of wind blows over and he clutches the scarf around his neck to keep it from flying away. the city remains silent. in the distance, grey clouds form. making a decision, hyoma leans over the ledge, clearing his throat.

over the remains of the city, he yells.

  
  
  


there’s a reason hyoma stays.

on most days, he doesn’t think much of it. his body moves through the motions of routine, of scavenging around the city, of clearing out shattered glass, of climbing to the tallest skyscraper. the reason stays at the back of his head, along with the faces of long-gone companions as they succumb to their sickness, along with the news on the television as the world turns on itself and destroys everything with nuclear warfare. he walks through the streets, and he doesn’t count his steps with the names of dead men.

but there are days hyoma wakes and stares too long at the scarf hanging by his neck, at the mismatched laces in his boots, at the grown out dyed edges of his hair. there are days where hyoma stares at his reflection in broken glass storefronts and realizes that he’s a walking memorial for the dead. there are days where hyoma’s pessimism fades enough for the memory of past promises to burn bright, enough for him to start looking into the distance for a familiar shock of hair.

hyoma prefers searching out of routine over searching with a purpose, over searching for a name he hasn’t spoken in years out of fear it will wear itself out on his tongue.

there’s a reason hyoma stays. the days he remembers this are the worst.

  
  
  


a storm is coming, hyoma notes. the flashes of lightning in the cluster of clouds illuminate the darkening sky. hyoma wraps his scarf around himself tighter, turning away from the edge of the skyscraper. storms are always rough, especially when almost all buildings have broken windows and cold permeates through the air. he rushes through the city, moving around the wreckage in a beeline towards the museum. the building he made his base is one of the few left intact and with a safe, reinforced room.

and well, hyoma lets himself have this indulgence.

the slam of doors echoes through the entrance hall, the cloth hanging over the paintings flutter in its wake. dust kicks up around his boots as he walks through the hall, a solitary figure in dark clothes in a hall that used to be pure white. the walls hold memories hyoma doesn’t like dwelling on, so he keeps his eyes forward. 

storms hold memories too. perhaps hyoma is a hypocrite for ignoring the past while staying in a city that lives in it.

he pushes open the door to the bunker, shaking off dust at the entrance. there is no need to — attempting cleanliness is futile — but his body moves on routine. scarf, goggles, coat into the chair. boots kicked to the side. fall into the pile of fabric he calls a bed. 

chase a long-gone scent. get lost in his thoughts.

this is not indulgence. this is routine.

hyoma does not allow himself to dwell on the past. hyoma falls into his memories like a bed at the end of the day. living with contradicting thoughts is a part of routine. there is no one to explain them to, anyway.

hyoma sighs and ventures further into a structure of his own making, one only he understands.

outside, the sky rumbles.

  
  
  


“that’s a bad storm coming.”

hyoma pauses, looking up from the rubble, and squints up at the sky. dark clouds loom threateningly in the distance. “are you still on for that run?” he asks his companion.

he hears a shuffle of clothes, then the thud of boots landing on concrete. hyoma scowls and gets back to work.  _ he’s probably dramatically posing,  _ he thinks (fondly, but he keeps that to himself.)

“it needs to be done,” his voice is hard with resolution. “we’re running low on supplies.”

hyoma sighs. he slides down the rubble to stand next to him. “always the hero, huh?”

hyoma gets a bark of laughter and an elbow to the gut before the presence beside him disappears. this is the part that’s always different in his dreams. today he gets the worst version.

he stares at kunigami’s back, wide and proud in the ruined building. he wants to reach out, wants his mouth to form a sound akin to a protest, but all he can do is watch kunigami’s back. all he can do is relive the past each night, over and over again.

hyoma does not like dwelling in the past. he is haunted by it nonetheless.

this is the part where kunigami looks back at him, a teasing comeback on his lips. this is the part hyoma rewound until it wore out. only the fragments in his dreams remain.

hyoma blinks up the white ceiling of the museum, a familiar disappointment sinking into his chest. he decides to scream louder at the top of the skyscraper today.

  
  
  


the familiar sight of the city from above is a soothing balm on hyoma’s nerves. the storm is growing closer and the air cooler, making hyoma huddle into himself, legs tucked against his chest. he huffs out a breath, watching the mist dissipate.

his routine has been getting interrupted more frequently, he thinks. storms have been passing by more often, hyoma gets holed up with his thoughts more often, hyoma throws himself back into routine to forget more often, rinse and repeat. his coat is a heavy weight on his shoulders.

he could map the city with his eyes closed. the presence of the museum is a white-hot beacon from behind. the library is a snuffed out light to the side. the skyscraper is a black hole in his chest.

hyoma stands and shuffles away from the edge, turning his back to the storm. he exits the roof and walks down the emergency staircase. aside from the roof, there’s only one other place he ever goes to in this building. before the door to the 44th floor, hyoma pauses, studying the markings drawn onto it. he traces over a crude drawing of a frowning panther, his chest threatening to cave in on itself. with a deep breath, hyoma pushes open the door.

here’s a secret: hyoma has routines he refuses to acknowledge. on days like these, where storms loom in the distance and the only place in the city untouched by memories becomes a hotspot for danger, hyoma sinks into the past. he sits in front of a wall filled with names written with stone, characters which may as well be seared into the back of his eyelids.

most of the writing has faded with time. hyoma’s gaze (always, always) lingers over an empty space, stone in hand. he’s already given up on seeing another life in this city. 

he drops the stone instead. in the back of his head, he hears a voice he no longer recognizes.  _ the first stage of grief is denial. _

no one told him how long the first stage is supposed to last.

he puts his hand on the would-be hopefully-not place on the wall, closes his eyes, and pictures a name written on it. he opens his eyes and sees it empty. neither sits right with him.

  
  
  


hyoma is going to slam his head against the wall if he stays here for any longer.

“can we go now?” he does  _ not  _ whine. they’ve been running around the entire day. hyoma wants to lay down until grass grows over him. kunigami has been looking through the yellowed and brittle books in the remains of the library for the past few hours. he is rightfully complaining.

kunigami looks up from where he’s seated cross-legged in a circle of books. “you’re the one who said i can only take one!” 

“yeah, because you can come back here anyway!”

“but  _ chigiri,” _ dear god, kunigami is 188 cm of hard muscle,  _ why is he so good at this. _ “it’s so hard to choose.”

hyoma huffs, stomping over to kunigami’s circle of pretentious books. he picks one at random and waves it in the air. “there. i chose for you.” he lightly tosses it into kunigami’s lap before heading back to the exit. “now can we go?”

he pauses at the threshold, looking back at kunigami. he’s holding the book up close, studying the back cover with a concentrated furrow in his brow. his bottom lip pushes out in an unconscious pout. hyoma sighs, crossing his arms and leaning against the door frame.

he can wait a few more minutes.

  
  
  


hyoma grounds his foot into the gravel, reveling in the crunch. he stares at the fogged up edges on his goggles, making no move to wipe it off. the pit in his stomach grows heavier. he keeps his eyes on the ground, but he can still see in his mind’s eye what’s in front of him. 

he has never stepped into the burnt remnants of the library, but he stood outside looking long enough. always sorry, always guilty — as if he could have stopped lightning with his bare hands. hyoma scoffs at himself.  _ hypocrite,  _ he sneers, kicking at the ground.  _ so desperate to forget the past only to want to restore what’s left of it. _ no matter how much hyoma burns holes into the ground with his stare, the library won’t return to what it was — not its full glory from before, and not the broken but full remains from Before.

hyoma wondered when he started thinking of the loss of a friend (partner? almost-maybe-someone?) on the same scale as the end of the world.

_ fuck it,  _ hyoma sends one final kick at the road before marching forward, eyes still downcast. he climbs up what used to be stairs, swiping aside stray debris. the scorch marks on the floor may as well be direct hits to his gut. slowly, he forces his sight upward, taking in charred furniture and burnt books. his gaze lingers over a spot on the ground, feeling emptier than the rest.

hyoma feels the weight in his stomach spread to his chest and throat. he wants to scream, cry, sob his fucking lungs out. he blinks furiously. all he gets are watery eyes. the pressure in his chest builds until hyoma lies on the ground to curl into it. maybe the warmth of his body will do something to the cold void in his lungs.

here’s a secret, one hyoma is starting to realize wasn’t much to begin with: the slightest of winds can topple the house of cards he calls routine. he doesn’t visit the skyscraper. he doesn’t scream.

he curls up in the middle of a burnt down library and tries to cry.

  
  
  


“tell me about it.”

kunigami moves his book aside to frown down at hyoma. “about what?”

hyoma attempts to poke kunigami’s face, but he blocks it with his forearm. “the book, dumbass.”

he feels kunigami’s legs shift indignantly under his head. “you’re the dumbass. i’m still not sure you know how to read.”

hyoma’s hand shoots upward, sending kunigami’s book into his face. “i  _ would _ like to know what the book i chose is about.”

“well for one,” kunigami says, dog-earing a page and setting the book aside. he leans into hyoma’s space until their foreheads are almost touching. “your dumb ass,” he punctuates this with a poke to hyoma’s chest. “chose a sequel.”

hyoma twists around and swipes the book away from kunigami’s protesting movements. he squints at the faded text in the cover. he barks out a laugh. “okay, but this is  _ the odyssey.  _ does it matter, you fucking nerd?”

kunigami snatches the book out of his hands. “you call me a dumbass  _ and _ a nerd? pick one, chigiri.” his voice sounds like a glass filled to the brim. hyoma’s fingers on his ticklish spots at the sides of his torso is all it needs to spill over. kunigami falls onto his back, breathless with laughter. “okay, okay, you win.” he smacks hyoma’s head with the book. “stop. stop!”

hyoma retreats, grinning triumphantly. “thought so.” he slides down, head taking its place on kunigami’s lap. “next time, i’ll choose the first book.”

kunigami sits back up, his head blocking the light. hyoma squints up at him, the reflective plastic of his goggles refracting the light. his roots are starting to grow in, straight lines of ginger against bleach blond. “i’ll take you up on that.”

  
  
  


hyoma starts going up the skyscraper a week after the storm kunigami disappeared into. at first he just stared intently at the horizon, fearing he’ll miss something. by the third week, he started reading  _ the odyssey. _

by the sixth week, he realizes that he’s alone.

by the sixth week, he realizes that he’s left to desperately keep the memory of his companions alive, with no one else to talk to during sleepless nights about piss-yellow bleach jobs or wide blue eyes or survivors of the worst, monsters in their own right.

by the sixth week, he climbs down to the 44th floor and starts writing, desperation marking temporary writing onto temporary walls, begging to be remembered.

by the seventeenth week, hyoma’s days blur into a routine of waiting and waiting and  _ waiting. _

he doesn’t finish  _ the odyssey. _

he wonders if penelope unraveled her husband’s burial shroud because she believed he’ll come home. he wonders if penelope’s days blurred into waiting and weaving and delaying and unraveling. he wonders if she did it out of routine.

he doesn’t finish  _ the odyssey. _ kunigami isn’t the strategy type, anyway.

  
  
  


they’re going to get kicked out.

hyoma tries to muffle his laughter behind his hand, elbowing kunigami in the gut when an old lady sends a dirty look their way.

in their defense, they  _ really _ don’t understand modern art.

hyoma grabs kunigami’s sleeve and drags him away from the dick painting, taking deep breaths to calm himself down. he lets go when he finds a bench that  _ isn’t  _ art, flopping down on one end. kunigami seats himself on the other side, fanning his still-red face.

“whose idea was this again?”

“definitely yours.”

they dissolve into another fit of giggles, this time more socially acceptable. hyoma made sure they weren’t seated in a way that it looked like they were laughing at art. he  _ cannot _ be banned from another place for being a public disturbance.

“but you know,” kunigami starts, chest heaving for air. “i wouldn’t mind living here.”

hyoma snickers. “what the hell? you want those creepy eyes watching you?”

“oh, come on.” kunigami spreads his arms out, leaning on the bench’s backrest. “can’t you imagine it? just you and all that expensive shit. the sound of your shoes echoing?”

“next thing you’ll tell me that you dream of being a trophy wife who killed her older, rich husband and walks around their marble mansion in a floaty robe.”

“that’s way too detailed for  _ you  _ not to have thought about it.”

“shut up!”

they end up getting kicked out. kunigami pays for hyoma's milkshake to make up for it.

  
  
  


hyoma wakes to the sound of thunder.

hurriedly getting dressed, he runs across the museum, footsteps echoing in the emptiness. he skids to a stop in the main hall, looking up at the skylight windows. dark clouds cover the sky. he curses under his breath. he’s been prepared for a while, but the shock of the storm arriving earlier than expected still spikes his anxiety. he also hates being wrong.

he shuffles back into his room, shutting the reinforced door behind him. he flops onto his bed, lost in thought. will his rations be enough? of course they will. if they aren’t, then he can adjust. he’s worked with worse before. this building will hold up. if not the building, then this room will. he’s dealt with this before, mastered everything that comes with preparing for it. 

so why is he shaking?

hyoma puts his hand on his hair, focusing on the feeling of his hands against knotted strands. he tightens his grip and pulls his hair forward. he stares at the straight line dividing natural red and dyed black. he wonders if there’s a similar line of ginger and blonde, or if the blonde edges have been sloppily cut off.

_ no use thinking, hyoma, _ he chides. hair doesn’t continue growing after death.

he twists his finger into the line of dyed hair, pulling it tight against his face. shoulder length. he stares at the ceiling through locks of hair, contemplating. his fingers twitch against the hollow of his throat.

he lets go and decides to take a nap.

  
  
  


hyoma brandishes box dye in kunigami’s face while scavenging through a drug store.

kunigami doesn’t even look up. “no.”

“what?” hyoma waves the box indignantly. “why not?”

kunigami levels him with a stare. “you want to dye your hair when my piss can outdo the water pressure on the shower.”

“first of all,  _ gross.”  _ he picks up another box. “and i want  _ us  _ to dye our hair.”

“don’t drag me into this.”

“oh, come on,” hyoma throws an arm over kunigami’s shoulder. “for the aesthetic!”

kunigami glares. hyoma attempts to match him but ends up averting his eyes.

“dying my hair is on my bucket list…” he trails off, mumbling. kunigami sighs.

“fine.”

“really?” hyoma springs back up.

kunigami rolls his eyes. “yes. can we get back to work?”

“of course,” hyoma chirps. “you’re the best, kunigami.”

he turns back to the shelves, pretending he didn’t see how red kunigami’s ears turned.

he’ll take his time.

  
  
  


the air is always colder after a storm. hyoma pulls his scarf tighter, shivering. he assesses the city, comparing what he sees to the picture he has in his head. the damage after the storm was minimal, at least compared to the time with the library. he doesn’t know what he’ll do if that happens again.

hyoma may not have liked the city, but he’s grown to care for it.

routine brings him to trace the lines of the roads with his eyes, counting abandoned cars and noting new shattered storefronts. the museum burns brighter today. the library doesn’t feel as empty as usual.

he hums, feeling his throat clear up. a strong gust of wind blows hair into his mouth. he spits, pulling the strands back into a braid. the skyscraper sways a little in the wind. hyoma rearranges his scarf over his hair, satisfied.

routine brings him to stare at the horizon, standing over the city like a lone sentinel. routine brings him to watch and wait for a ghost.

it is not routine that makes him freeze in shock. it is not routine that makes his legs twitch, half-delirious enough to consider jumping off the edge as the fastest way down. it is not routine that weakens his spine, making him collapse onto his knees.

in the distance, a figure moves closer.

  
  
  


in the remains of the library, hyoma digs through the ashes.  _ the odyssey  _ is a white-hot heat in this breast pocket.  _ the iliad  _ is blown away by the wind, is on hyoma’s hands and knees and soles.

hyoma hates breaking promises, even if the other person is dead.

  
  
  


if ghosts are supposed to look as they did when they died, then why is kunigami taller?

hyoma takes a shaky step forward, feeling like he’ll collapse and disassemble into a million pieces. kunigami gives a small smile.

“hi?”

at the sound of the other boy’s voice (and christ, did his memory fail him,) hyoma strides forward, shaky steps gaining strength. he stops a foot away from kunigami, relearning the map of his face. new scars, new gear,  _ he cut off the blond,  _ hyoma wants to laugh. he meets kunigami’s eyes and feels the smile drop from his face. he rears back and punches him in the jaw.

kunigami takes it well. he winces at the impact, hand hovering over his jaw. he smiles again, bigger this time. “hey, chigiri.”

“kunigami.”

“long time no see.”

“you think?” hyoma answers, raising an eyebrow. kunigami shrugs sheepishly. wordlessly, hyoma understands that he’ll explain why.

“kunigami.” hyoma says again. he steps closer, close enough to count the scrapes on kunigami’s face. “ _ rensuke.” _

rensuke exhales shakily. “hyoma.” hyoma rewrites his mental catalog of rensuke’s expressions. this is a gentle smile, he thinks. “i’m home.”

the city howls with wind. the beacon shifts places, from museum to boy. hyoma smiles.

“welcome back.”

**Author's Note:**

> i’m on [twitter](https://twitter.com/kiyooms)


End file.
